Call of Freedom, page 29
After a moment of thought, Jeanne, with renewed spirit, slapped the tabletop with her palm and exclaimed, ‘No, Paul. Your father was right. We had a plan. We have a dream, and we have a plot!’
Surprised and joyous yet contrite, Jacob took his wife’s hands across the table. His shoulders, weighed down like his conscience by his secret, sagged.
‘My dear wife,’ he said with a note of guilt in his voice. ‘You are the bravest woman I have ever known.’
‘No, Jacob…’
‘Let me finish. I am the most wretched of men. I should have seen your strife, but instead, I was blinded by my own course. I must confess, I have not been as forthright as I should have with one as honest and courageous as you have proven to be. Accepting to embark on this final voyage means that you are capable, for the love of your family, to overcome a deep-rooted fear, and the terrible memory of that tragic event on the lake of Geneva. And yet I stand here, such a feeble soul in that I have not even had the strength and honesty to share my doubts with you.’
‘What do you mean, Jacob?’
‘Sit yourself down, my dear wife.’ Jeanne pulled up her chair while Jacob sat back down opposite her and continued in a tone of penitence. ‘That plot of land I have been using as a reason to leave here, I must confess, I do not know for certain if it is ours to claim.’
‘What do you mean, Jacob? You showed me the letter of reservation.’
‘Yes, I put down a payment to reserve the land, but I did not complete the purchase of the deeds at the time. I took the money back with me to England to join you in London. But as you know, that money was stolen on my very first night there.’
‘Are you saying you brought us all the way across the world,’ Jeanne said evenly, ‘through storms that still give me nightmares, and on a ship that brought us close to starvation and nearly killed our son, on the mere hope that we had a place to go to?’
‘Yes, I am sorry, I am afraid so.’
‘But surely the reservation must still hold, Jacob.’
‘Dare I say it, that is my hope. But I confess, I cannot guarantee it. After I left, there was a revolt in New York. The man I entrusted with my reservation payment has since died, and Darlington's letters ceased thereafter.’
‘It’s no wonder you have been behaving so secretively since we left Ireland!’
‘I’m afraid so. I must confess it had continually clouded my judgement, hampered my sleep, and made me blind to the anxiety of those I love most of all in this world.’
Folding her arms, Jeanne sat back in her chair. Her mouth tightened; her eyes steeled. Her determination returning, she said, ‘Then, my dear husband, we shall sort this through once we get there. There’s nothing we can do about it here, is there?’
‘No, I do not believe so.’
‘I wish you’d told me before, Jacob,’ she said with empathy, seeing that, now more than ever, Jacob needed her faith in him. Having uncovered his weakness and dilemma, and having reconnected with her role as one of the two founding pillars of the Delpech family in this New World, she had by the same token recovered her faith in her husband. ‘Then we shall be strong together, and if need be, we’ll rent rooms in a lodging house until we find a plot to our liking,’ she declared. Then, beckoning to Isabelle and Pierre, who were sitting on the big bed, she called out, ‘Come, children, let us pray together for God to bless our house of Delpech.’
‘Isn’t this the house of Mrs Shrimpton, though?’ said Isabelle saucily as she jumped off her parents’ bed.
‘Never forget, children, wherever we are, that we make up the house of Delpech. Just as a church is made by its congregation, not its building, so too our family makes up our house. As long as we are together, we are the house of Delpech, built on strength, founded on faith, joined in love, and kept by God above.’
‘Amen,’ said Jacob in earnest as they all joined hands around the table.
Paul, quietly listening, wondered how that could make sense if not all of them were present.
A little later that day, with a lighter step, Jacob sauntered down to the bustling quayside to oversee the loading of their effects onto the Nassau, a two-mast, square-rigged brigantine of 125 tons. But there was still the awkward question of what they would do when they arrived. Did they have a plot? And what had become of the Darlingtons? ‘Only time will tell,’ he told himself and then pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind as the stevedores began hauling the crates and chests from the lockup to the hold.
Meanwhile, standing before the lodging room window that looked over the bay, Paul reminisced about the ship he had visited and the taste of freedom he had sampled. With that taste in mind and despite his handicap, he distinctly remembered feeling a desperate desire to sail away, so desperate that he would have gladly sailed right out of the bay with those sailors, even if he had known they were pirates. It was, he thought to himself, recalling the words of his mother, ‘out of character,’ and it quite frightened him.
Jeanne spent a frantic afternoon preparing for the imminent departure, which had thankfully been put off till the morning tide.
By the evening, she was reassured to learn that Jacob had arranged for a carter to pick up their belongings in the morning, and especially that he had reserved a private cabin aboard, albeit for the hefty sum of five pounds. The extra comfort of privacy helped her process her anxiety, but she was nonetheless conscious they were leaving a threatening situation in Boston only to be heading toward an uncertain future in New York.
Mrs Shrimpton had her maid bring up the evening meal. The landlady was sorry that Mr and Mrs Delpech had finally decided to depart for New York. Having settled the bill earlier, Jacob understood why she had been so keen to encourage them to stay longer. It reminded him of the exorbitant rent he had been obliged to honour once when he fell ill in the perfidious town of Port Royal. It had forced him to become indentured to a privateer ship to pay it off.
‘A short stay, this time,’ Mrs Shrimpton remarked perfunctorily.
‘This time, yes,’ Jeanne returned and thanked Mrs Shrimpton for her warm welcome.
‘You know where to find us should you come back, me loves.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jacob.
‘By the way, I heard them rats are gone, my word.’
‘Rats, Mrs Shrimpton?’ said Jacob, quite surprised.
‘Pirates, that’s what my Albert calls ’em. And I wager the governor ain’t ’alf glad to see the back of ’em.’
‘I thought he was on their heels.’
‘Put it this way: they are out of his periwig now, ain’t they! If the truth be told, he doesn’t want them stirring up his past dealings with Kidd and his crew. Saw them in a completely different light not so long ago, didn’t he, my word, before Kidd turned pirate. I imagine he probably thinks everyone’s forgotten about it, and it won’t do him any favours if someone breaks the silence about the captain’s lot. I’m sure he’s quite happy to let them go, long as they remain as mute as a prison door! Bad enough with his settling the Leisler score. Many were against it here in Boston, you know. And he doesn’t want any more bad air, does he? Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning before you leave, me loves.’
After dinner, Jacob raised his head from the letter he was reading in the lamplight and pondered what Mrs Shrimpton had said about the previous night’s episode. He conjectured that if he had not met Cox in a previous life, his journey might have ended last night. How strange was the journey of a man, he thought to himself as he headed for an uncertain future in New York. But perhaps it was fate.
‘What are you reading, darling?’ asked Jeanne, pouring a hot, calming herbal infusion into his cup.
‘Oh, just an old letter from Darlington, my dear,’ he said, folding the letter away as the soothing fragrance rose from the chamomile flowers steeped in the pot. Taking up his cup, he wondered if his young friend had survived the commotion of the day. However, he did not think it necessary to tell Jeanne that, at the time of writing, things were turning pretty sour in New York for Daniel Darlington.
Chapter 23
1691, New York
The Darlingtons — 8 years earlier
Darlington perused the letter he had been writing earlier to Jacob Delpech.
So much has come about since I last wrote, but I shall try to be brief.
The Canadian campaign was a disaster. The allied Indian sachems had pledged to supply a thousand warriors to add to our first American three-colonies army, but their tribes had been severely affected by the contagion, and they were unable to send a single brave.
Last August, I and my neighbour, Didier Ducamp, whom I mentioned in an earlier letter, along with four hundred men, followed Major Winthrop northward, only to watch our rank and file being decimated without seeing the face of a single Canadian enemy. I could only helplessly bear witness to the unstoppable demise of scores of men who dropped like flies as they succumbed, not to enemy fire, but to a terrifying onslaught of the smallpox!
Nobody complained when Winthrop ordered our retreat, except Leisler, who blamed Winthrop for the failure to attack Montreal and had him arrested upon our arrival in Albany. With hindsight, I realise now that Leisler must have fathomed the consequence of leaving Montreal without a battlefront. William Phips’s strategy relied on our land attack on Montreal to support his raid on Quebec from the St Lawrence River.
Indeed, Phips fared no better with his thirty or so ships that sailed from Boston, tasked to destroy the French in Quebec. Phips had been waiting for reinforcements from England that did not come, and so, he did not sail into the St Lawrence River until October. The tardive season, the lack of a secondary battlefront, and the early onset of cold weather took a terrible toll. You know how cold it can get here in the fall.
With no other battlefront to defend, given that we had already retreated to Albany by then, the French under Frontenac were able to force the fleet out of the St Lawrence River with the loss of thirty-seven New Englanders against seven Canadians. The only consolation being that Jacques le Moyne de Sainte-Hélène, the infamous commander of the Schenectady massacre, was among the dead. But then a further one thousand men tragically died on the return journey to Boston from illness, dysentery, and shipwreck. Again, Leisler was furious.
Daniel paused and wondered if he should send the letter. Was there any need to burden a man three thousand miles away with his own frustration? Moreover, it gave him nausea to review the events of the previous months. It made him feel even more republican to think that two kings on another continent were in many ways the root cause of this war in America. Couldn’t New Englanders and French Canadians have sorted out their own disagreements by themselves? If Frontenac had not obeyed his king, there would have been no massacre, his cousins would still be alive and going about their daily lives, and his aunt would not be in Boston.
But there again, wouldn’t the Catholic Canadians have still set their sights on capturing the totality of the fur trade anyway? It was hard to know. ‘More, always more, such is the greed of the white man, wherever he is from,’ he recalled that his pastor father used to say. And didn’t he himself strive for more wealth, more success, more importance? Was it even possible for so many who had come to this world with burning ambitions just to live their lives content with their lot? Manifestly not, for after all, this world they were building was founded on a dream of success, come what may.
By the winter of 1690, Leisler’s plans of a two-pronged attack to eradicate the French had irremediably gone awry. However, he remained adamant in his self-imposed duty to defend the territory and hold office until the king’s new governor, Henry Sloughter, arrived from England. Leisler remained focussed and steadfast even in defeat. During a meeting at the fort one day, Leisler said, ‘Failure is only part of the story, gentlemen. For did not Columbus discover America by failing in his endeavour to reach the Indies?’ Daniel had heard the refrain before as a reason to fight through setbacks and accomplish that all-important dream of success. But he had nonetheless agreed; at least the French had been driven back to a defensive stance, for the time being. And, all said and done, had the land expedition not encountered the invisible enemy of disease, the French would have stood little chance against the Boston fleet, occupied as they would have been with the battlefront south of Montreal.
Leisler knew he had been right, that he had been cheated of success, and Daniel soon noticed the acting lieutenant governor becoming more and more distrustful of all but his closest circle. Darlington saw the man gradually acquire an increasingly guarded attitude toward anything that challenged his power, including one of the king’s appointees named Major Richard Ingoldsby, who arrived one day in January ahead of the incoming governor.
Even Marianne was beginning to say that Leisler was becoming unreasonable. But Daniel remained steadfast in his support for Leisler. He only hoped the price of his commitment to the man would not be too costly. But never in a thousand years would he have foreseen the events that would lead to the inexorable demise of Jacob Leisler.
He perused the last lines of the letter again, then picked up a fresh quill, which he dipped delicately into the ink well. He wrote his name at the bottom, followed by the date: January 29th, 1691.
Darlington had been writing the letter earlier that morning when his flow of ink was interrupted by a messenger with an invitation for Daniel to meet Leisler urgently at his house on the Strand.
In the large hall, he had found council members seated around the table. Jacob Milborne—having recovered his vibrant tenor voice after the tragic death of his wife and daughter from smallpox—was rereading out loud a note sent by Major Ingoldsby, who demanded that he be admitted into the fort with his stores.
‘That is correct,’ had said Chidley Brooke, the messenger, a lean English gentleman with an accommodating rictus.
‘This is a direct affront to our governor’s rank and honour, no less, sir,’ Milborne had remarked with indignation at the show of such insolence from a representative of Their Majesties. ‘An absolute outrage!’
Leisler had distanced himself from the table and had taken his usual stance before the rear window that looked onto the frost-covered garden. ‘But let us first see his orders,’ he had said, while holding an official letter. ‘Milborne, I want you to kindly remind Major Ingoldsby that this letter means that, until the newly appointed governor arrives to relieve me, he must obey his acting lieutenant governor.’ Daniel had surmised that the letter in question was the one from the king received back in ’89. At the time, Leisler had interpreted it as an endorsement of his position as acting lieutenant governor, following the flight back to England of the appointed Lieutenant Governor Nicholson. This was the letter upon which Leisler’s authority as acting lieutenant governor had been founded and subsequently validated by his counsellors.
Chidley Brooke had glanced over the letter that Leisler had handed to Milborne to lay out before him. ‘I do believe we have a copy. But I will convey your message to the major. In the meantime, I am to hand you this. It is the new composition of the king’s council for New York.’
Leisler’s face had seemed to set in a mask of passivity as he perused the names of his enemies on the note that was handed to him. With hindsight, Daniel reflected now how courageously Leisler had kept his composure when everything inside must have been a maelstrom of disappointment and disillusion. Besides the name of Chidley Brooke, who was sitting at the table, the names on the list included William Nicholls and Nicholas Bayard, whom Leisler had kept in jail for almost a year for trying to sabotage his rule. But Leisler’s name was absent. Was he to understand that there was something special reserved for him? But how could he work with these Jacobites who would have left the gates of the city wide open for the French to march in like a sharp winter gust? There again, maybe Their Majesties were wise in thinking that to rule, one must deploy one’s enemies in positions of importance and so have them become dependent on the authority that gave them their rank in society. Alexander the Great deployed such a method very well. There again, it could all be a Jacobite ruse, couldn’t it?
Brooke had taken his leave by the time Leisler had turned to Daniel, and explained that it was best to hold Major Ingoldsby at bay until they understood his orders and the authority under which he intended to carry them out. Leisler counted on Daniel as one of his most trusted men to convey Milborne to the Beaver anchored at Gowanus Creek off Long Island. ‘We only know that our detractors were seen headed toward the island and no doubt have polluted the major’s mind one way or another.’ Could this all be a ploy to take the fort? It was a delicate matter, and Daniel was not only a trusted friend, but he had also shown his worth on a number of commissions before. He also had a boat. Daniel could hardly refuse the man to whom he had sworn allegiance, so he had accepted and had sent word to Didier Ducamp to prepare the ketch so they could be out with the rise of the morning tide and arrive at the Beaver by noon.
Marianne now entered the study with a basket of victuals. She said, ‘I don’t like it, Daniel. Why can’t he send someone else to do his begging? Or better still, why doesn’t he meet the Englishman here in New York?’
‘He is suspicious.’
‘He’s afraid of his own shadow, Daniel.’
‘That’s because of the papists and the Jacobites who are dying to cook his goose, and he knows it. I’m the only one he trusts with a suitable vessel.’
‘Anyway, here’s your basket. There’s plenty in there for May’s husband too.’
‘Thank you, my pretty wife. Truly, I am a lucky man.’
